


This Is Expiation

by shamusandstone (theleaveswant)



Category: CSI: NY
Genre: Anger, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Collars, Community: kink_bingo, Dom/sub, Dubious Consent, F/M, Impact Play, Kink Negotiation, M/M, Multi, Punishment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-09-01
Updated: 2008-09-01
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:27:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theleaveswant/pseuds/shamusandstone
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Danny learns that his ex and his best friend have been keeping a secret. Ever the diligent investigator, he checks it out, and finds something he never knew he was looking for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Expiation

**Author's Note:**

> Sets up "Flack is a Leatherman" chronology (abandoned when I left the fandom). Thanks to wilde_stallyn for the beta.

Tossing the desk wasn't premeditated. At worst, it was a crime of opportunity. However, in the unwritten manifesto of the NYPD crimelab, innocent intentions let no one off the hook, and this was just one entry in a long list of offenses.

Danny was tying his shoe when Flack paused in the act of entering the layout room, leaning out the door to talk to someone outside. “How's the elephant hunt going?”

“Trail's getting warmer, but the source is getting colder.” Lindsay's voice. Danny could see her feet and the hems of her capris, though the rest of her was blocked by the table behind which he knelt. “The carving we found is actually scrimshaw, made from the bones or teeth of marine animals. That ivory? Came from a walrus.”

“Seriously?” Flack said. “I didn't know John Lennon's teeth were that big.”

Danny could imagine the face Lindsay made as he rolled his own eyes and fixed the cuff on his trouser leg. Stella gave him a look of mingled exasperation, amusement, affection and concern as she stepped around him reach the fume hood, and he smiled back apologetically. It may have been taking his and Lindsay's mutual avoidance to childish extremes to stay crouched out of sight, but she sounded cheerful and he didn't want to be blamed for ruining her mood.

“Not your best,” Lindsay admonished Flack.

“Sorry I don't have a ready supply of walrus jokes for you, doll. I do, however, have the tickets for Saturday in my desk.”

“Oh, goodie! I don't have any cash on me, but I'll hit the machine at lunch.”

“No rush, I know you're good for it. Good luck with that walrus thing.”

“Thanks, good luck with your case.”

Lindsay's calves retreated and Danny stood up slowly just as Flack turned to face him. “Jesus, Messer! You scared the crap out of me. Hell are you doing hiding back there, anyway?”

“You're just jealous 'cause I'm the superior ninja. Tickets for what?”

“Some thing at a club,” Flack shrugged.

“Oh yeah, what thing?”

“Not your thing, I'll tell you that much.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, I just don't think it's anything you'd be into.” Flack mirrored Danny's frown. “What's the look?”

“You takin' her on a date?” Flack laughed. “Are you?”

“No, I am not taking her on a date. It's just a special night at this club I go to now and then; Lindsay said she wanted to go so I bought her a ticket when I got mine. It's no big deal.” He waved at the spread of broken glass on the table in front of Danny. “You getting anything off that window?”

Working through the evidence drove the “thing” out of Danny's mind until hours later. He and Don were sitting on opposite sides of the latter's desk at the precinct, sifting through a stack of hits turned up by the prints and partials he'd pulled from the glass. Flack had been paged to take a call at the front desk, leaving Danny alone in the office. Even with this arguably perfect opportunity, Danny would have never succumbed to the temptation to snoop if the top drawer hadn't been left ajar, with what looked like a strip of gently shining cardstock peeking coyly out of the corner.

Danny stretched his arms over his head, looking over his shoulder. No sign of Flack, and the normally bustling bullpen was deserted over lunch, so he stood up and strolled casually around the desk. He tugged the drawer open a little further and tsked disappointedly. The ticket he'd seen was from a baseball game—one he and Flack had attended together two weeks before. With another glance to confirm his privacy, he began rifling delicately through the drawer, disturbing the contents as little as possible. Finding nothing, he moved on to the next drawer down, then the top one on the other side.

He slammed the drawer shut as Don walked back into the room, eyes on his notebook. “Vic's car was found out in Yonkers, no sign of the girlfriend. You wanna—something wrong?”

“Naw, just stretchin' my legs.” At that moment Danny's gaze fell upon an envelope sticking out from the edge of the blotter. So did Don's.

“That's—” Don grabbed for the envelope but Danny had already snatched it up and stepped back out of his reach.

He pulled out two pieces of heavy charcoal-gray paper—and froze. His eyes ran over the small print while his brain refused to accept the large. He waited for Don's protest, 'those aren't mine' or 'that's not what it looks like'. It didn't come, so Danny prompted, “The hell is this?”

He held the tickets so Flack could see them, looking in his eyes for surprise or confusion. He saw neither. “Could you keep your voice down, please?”

“Is this some kind of joke?” Flack stared back, level-gazed. Danny swallowed and forced himself to read the words aloud. “Leather and Fetish Night? _Shed?_ Flack, that's a fucking _gay bar!_ ”

“I asked you to keep your voice down.”

Danny bridled but complied, clenching his fists and hissing his next words. “You're taking Montana to some fuckin' freaks' night at a fag bar? On what fucking planet does that make any fucking sense?”

“I can explain, but I don't wanna do it here.”

“Why not?”

“For one thing, I'd rather those guys from narco yakking it up in the hallway didn't overhear. For another, it's kind of a long story and we have other things to do.” He gestured with his notebook. “How 'bout you grab your kit and we go process this car, and I'll tell you the whole story on the way?”

Danny fumed for a moment, wondering if he could bait or beat an answer out of Flack, but the tall man's ice-blue eyes weren't giving anything away. It was Don's way or not at all, and Danny was too flustered to protest.   
~~~  
“Has Messer said anything to you?” Don asked Lindsay sotto voce as he sweetened his coffee and she boiled water for tea.

“No, he's still keeping a low profile. If anything it's gotten worse; he practically bolted out of autopsy this morning when I arrived.” She rubbed her forehead. “I can't believe you told him about me.”

“To be fair, I didn't tell him. He ransacked my desk.”

“You could have left me out of it. Told him they were for someone else.”

“Two problems with that. One, this is Danny we're talking about and as you know he's a little paranoid and a lot not-stupid. Two, if there's anything I've learned from this job it's how easy a little lie at the beginning can turn into a big shit sandwich by the end.” He touched her hand comfortingly. “I didn't think there was anyone but Stella in the room, or I wouldn't have said anything. I shoulda been more careful. I'm sorry. ”

She sighed and splashed water in her mug to warm it. “No, you're right. I just wish . . . . Tell me again what you told him.”

“What, the whole thing?” She nodded and Don took a deep breath. “I didn't want him behind the wheel when I told him in case he flipped out, so I drove. We got about six blocks before his patience ran out. He demanded a story, so I gave it to him, starting from the beginning: going to the Spike that first time when I was twenty one.”

 _“I thought I knew what I was walking into, what I was looking for and what I would find. Now I know I didn't have a fucking clue. I met a man there—“_

 _“Whoa, hold on. You went to the Spike, you met a man, what are you trying to tell me? You're some kind of --?” He waved a hand uncertainly._

 _“I've had sexual relationships with men, if that's what you mean.”_

 _“Since when?”_

 _“First time with a guy was on a varsity track field trip, senior year.”_

 _“No way, man. I've known you for years. I've met your girlfriends. You play for both teams or what?”_

 _“That's how you wanna put it, sure.”_

 _Danny grinned like this was the greatest joke he'd ever heard and he'd never bought it for a second. “Get out of here, man, quit pullin' my leg.”_

 _“I'm not pulling anything.”_

 _The grin faded but the skepticism lingered. “Seriously?”_

 _“Seriously. You want me to keep going with this story or not?”_

 _“Yeah, of course. Just—I'm kinda stunned here, you know? Not 'cause I thought you could never—but 'cause I just never thought, I mean it never would have occurred to me that you might be gay. You never mentioned . . .” Don could practically see it when all of the conversations in which he had referred to “lovers” or “dates” without explicitly declaring gender clicked into place for Danny. “Shit.”_

 _“As I was saying . . .”_

“I told him how I met Master Glenn, how he stepped in when that creep wouldn't take no for an answer. How courteous he was, how dignified. How we talked for hours before he invited me home with him.”

 _“Why did you come here tonight, Don? What do you want?”_

 _Don rattled the ice at the bottom of his glass—tonic and lime; he'd switched to soda after his first Manhattan when he noticed that Glenn only ordered water. “I don't know,” he answered truthfully._

 _“Do you trust me?”_

 _No hesitation this time. “Yes.”_

“I told him how safe I felt with Master, how I wept with gratitude when he tied me up and beat me.”

 _Danny shook his head, tongue between his teeth and lips. “Come on, man. The gay thing I can take, but that SM shit is fucking crazy. You've seen the cases. Remember in '05, the woman strapped to the front of the car? Those people are nutjobs, Flack. You're not one of them.”_

 _Don made a face. “It's true, sometimes BDSM people do stupid things. New players try shit they can't handle or experienced folk get careless, or it's a Murphy's law kind of day and things go wrong for no reason at all. Accidents happen, people get hurt. Occasionally someone goes over that edge, like your car case, and does a partner deliberate harm, for a million reasons. And then there're fuckers out there who dress their violence up as kink or use it as an excuse when it's the farthest thing from it, like Bundy blaming bondage porn for making him a serial killer. So yeah, a certain percentage of kinky people will make their way across our desks. But so will a certain percentage of anybody—dentists, daycare workers. It's not like BDSM and crime go together like PB & J. Some kinky people are obliviously self-centered, some are dumb as rocks, a few are pure fucking evil, and plenty are just unlucky—because we're people, Messer. We're just as messed up as everybody else.”_

 _Somewhere during this monologue they'd gotten stuck at the world's longest red light. Danny drummed his fingers on the dash, staring at traffic through a misty windscreen._

“I told him how it's not about wild sex, but about putting your trust in someone entirely, being able to put yourself in their hands and give up trying to control everything for a little while, or feel someone else put their trust entirely in you. How hard it is to find that these days and what an intense trip it is when you do, all that. And you know, I think he got that.” He smiled. “Like, he still doesn't _really_ understand, the penny hasn't quite dropped yet, but at least there's a penny there? That was neat.

"Then he asked what the difference was between BDSM and violence, so I went into the whole consent shpiel, you know, SSC, RACK, all that. I told him how I learned this stuff from Leathermen in the East Coast Old Guard, so the way I was taught it all comes down to trust, honor and respect, and if you have all those things, really have them, for both your partner and yourself, then consent gets taken care of.

"That lead into a dozen other questions: what's Leather, how does a Master/slave relationship work, explained to him about the Family, showed him my collar.” A tiny padlock on a thin chain which Don had worn for six years without interruption, except for the months he'd spent in hospital after the blast and follow-up visits during the rehab period (metal collars and MRI scans are not the best of bedfellows). Subtle, but Danny couldn't believe he hadn't noticed it before.

“Worked our way through the whole glossary—play, scene, Dom, sub, top, bottom, what being a switch means to me. Eventually I offered to lend him some resources on the subject and he made this kind of grunt noise, noncommittal. He went quiet for a few minutes, digesting, and then he said—”

 _“Wait a minute, what the hell does this have to do with Lindsay?”_

 _“I can't tell you that.”_

 _“You can't tell me that?”_

 _“It's her story, it's not my place to tell it. I can only speak for myself.”_

 _“Are you fucking her?”_

 _“No, I am not.”_

 _“Swear it.”_

 _“On my mother's eyes, Mess. I told you, I hardly ever sleep with my play partners.”_

 _“You have played with her, then! This isn't the first time she's gone to one of these things.” Don didn't answer. “How?”_

 _“How what?”_

 _“How do you play? Who tops? Do you touch her?” Don licked his lips, struggling to find a way to acknowledge the physical contact and emotional intimacy in his play relationship with Lindsay, assure Danny that it posed no threat to whatever claim Danny felt he still had on her, and remind without offending him that it was his own fault if that claim had been nullified. Danny's impatience saved him from answering. “Do you want to fuck her?”_

 _That one was easier to answer. “I haven't lied yet, I won't start now. I find Lindsay very attractive and I feel privileged to be her friend. If I ever had the opportunity to be more than that . . .” He shrugged._

 _“Why haven't you?”_

 _“She doesn't want me, or she's never given me any indication that she does. Even if she did, the timing's not right; she's still all twisted up with feelings for you. 'Course right now the biggest one's anger, but still. I been a rebound before and it's not nearly as fun as it sounds.”_

“I told him the rest of the story was up to you.”

“Then what?”

“He asked who else in the department knows, so I told him.” It wasn't a long list: Mac was aware that Flack had connections in the subculture (a potential blackmail liability), but only Stella knew the depth of his involvement. She'd covered for him when he flew to Phoenix for his Master's Master's funeral and retrieved his collar after the bombing, delivering it to his Master for safekeeping until he left hospital.

“He didn't say anything the rest of the ride, then we got to the scene and it was all work. Haven't talked about anything else since.” He turned to lean back on the edge of the counter, sipping his coffee. “I did leave a couple of books and a list of online resources in a bag in his mailbox, so far he hasn't mentioned it. You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, fine. I'm just . . .” she made a falling gesture with one hand. “Waiting for the other shoe.”

Lindsay finished dressing her tea and pressed the lid of her travel mug tightly shut—and was immediately glad that she had, because it spared her pouring the contents down her blouse when she turned around. Danny was standing at the other end of the room, and instead of running the other way when she met his eyes he strode determinedly towards them.

Danny plucked an orange from the bowl on the table. “Flack, Lindsay,” he greeted them with fleeting glances. “Thanks for that stuff you loaned me. I read some of it and it was, um, educational. It's in my locker, I can get it if you want it back.”

“Keep it as long as you want, I've read it all before.”

“Yeah, okay. I have got one question though.” He tossed the orange from hand to hand.

Flack looked around, wary in case things were about to get messy. “Shoot.”

“This thing you guys're going to. Where do I get a ticket?”

Lindsay blinked. “You want to go?”

The orange stopped migrating. “Thought I might check it out. You know, see things with my own eyes.”

Don and Lindsay shared a look. “Sure,” Flack said. “Um . . . last I heard they were sold out.”

Danny nodded and turned to go.

“But you know what, I know one of the organizers. I can check if there are any unclaimed comps or something.”

“You don't need to do that.”

“Hey: you wanna go, I'll find a way to get you in. Lemme ask around, see what I find out.”

“Thanks, man. Talk to you later.”

Danny left the break area with his orange, and Don turned to Lindsay. “That was an interesting turn of events.”

“You're telling me,” she said, frowning, then touched his arm lightly and headed for DNA.  
~~~  
“I'm beginning to resign myself to the fact that he's not going to show.”

Don had managed to find a spare ticket for Danny, and had been emailing him advice on how to attend. They'd arranged to meet at Don's apartment before 9:30 and cab to the club from there. Lindsay herself had been ten minutes late because she kept changing her mind about what to wear, but it was now twelve minutes past ten and not a sign of Danny.

“That relief I hear in your voice or disappointment?” Flack said around the last bite of pastrami sandwich. The way Lindsay stared silently at the olive at the bottom of his half-finished martini screamed 'both' louder than a megaphone. “What's eatin' you, Linds?”

“He really found the tickets on his own? You didn't lead him to them or anything?”

“What if I did?” he grinned, leaning across the counter towards her. “Would you punish me?”

She mirrored his lean, bringing her doll's face close to his. Her lips pouted like a movie star's, simultaneously demure and menacing: her Domme face. Don savored the moment; he didn't know what it was about petite women acting toppy, but Lindsay in particular melted him like a snowman in the Serengeti. “You know, I think I'd have to. In fact, that's so bad I'd have to be really mean and not play with you for a whole month.”

He rolled his eyes and sighed theatrically. “If you're going to be like that it's just as well I didn't. Not consciously, anyway. Is it really such a terrible thing, him knowing? You were the one complaining, even before things started getting bad between you, about how you hated keeping this a secret, feeling like you had to choose. I told you then to take the chance and tell him, and I stand by my assertion that if you'd been open with him instead of keeping things to yourself, maybe he'd have been open with you instead of stumbling his dumbass way into someone else's bed.”

His own bed, actually, or at least his own apartment—maybe even on the pool table where he'd first made love to her (the thought made her stomach twist; he'd said he'd never done it there before, but how could she trust that he never would again?). Eight weeks ago, the morning after the Cabbie Killer apprehension, she'd swung by his place before work bearing cinnamon buns, fresh from the bakery. A little present to say . . . not 'I forgive you', perhaps, but 'I am willing to try'. She'd accepted the hug he offered at the door, then begged leave to use his bathroom—where she cursed her trained eyes for zeroing in on the used condoms in the wastebasket and recalling that the apartment had been freshly cleaned, and the basket empty, the last time she stayed over.

 _Evidence in hand, she stormed into the kitchen. “What the hell is this?”_

 _Danny cowered like a kicked dog, but didn't prevaricate. “Ruben's mom, Rikki, she--I--we were both . . . . We weren't thinking straight. I screwed up, Linds, I know, but it's over, and I am sorry, baby, I am so sorry.”_

 _Lindsay tasted bile. “How long?”_

 _“Just a couple of days.”_

 _“Who ended it?” Danny licked his lips. “She did, didn't she?”_

 _“I was about to, Lindsay, I swear, she just beat me to the punch. And it will never happen again, I guarantee that.”_

 _“Oh, I know that.” He looked up at her, nonplussed. “Moving truck pulled away just as I got here. I saw her leave. Goddammit, Danny, why couldn't you just—you're not the only one who's had to grieve for someone you cared about, or blamed yourself for their deaths.”_

 _“I know, sweetheart, I know. That's why I couldn't go to you, I didn't want to—”_

 _“Didn't want to what? Remind me of the diner? Hurt my feelings? 'Cause I hate to break it to you, but finding out you cheated on me? Hurts a hell of a lot worse.” Lindsay slammed the basket into his chest and stalked out._

She had managed to keep her tears from brimming over until she got to Stella's office, where she crumbled into a sobbing mess and requested that they not be assigned the same cases or, as much as possible, the same shifts. By the time Danny got to work the whole crimelab knew, and even those that sympathized gave him the same look: you are one dumb son of a bitch. He took the hint and had stayed out of her way as much as possible since.

“Shoulda, coulda, woulda. You have mustard on your chin.”

Don wiped the stain and sucked the mustard from his thumb. “Well, I'm through waiting. If Danny's not here by the time I'm done getting ready, I'm leaving without him.” He tossed back the last mouthful of martini, chewed the olive and spat the pit in the garbage, then left his plate and glass on the edge of the sink.

Lindsay walked an orbit around the living room while Don changed. She took deep breaths to quiet the chatter of nervous activity in her brain, trying to drive out worry about Danny, and work, and Danny, and Don's DNA on that olive pit, and Danny, and how olives were first domesticated in the Fertile Crescent approximately 10,000 years ago. Trying to just look forward to the event and the friends she would see there.

At 10:18 the buzzer sounded. “Should I get that?”

Lindsay heard Don spit before he leaned out of the bathroom, toothbrush in hand and quizzical optimism on his face. “Please,” he said, before ducking out of sight again.

She thumbed the intercom. “Hello?”

“Lindsay?” Danny's voice, tinny and distorted from several floors down. “I thought I mighta been too late.”

“You're in the nick of time. Come on up.” She pressed the second button and unlocked the apartment door, retreating back into the living room.

Moments later, the door opened tentatively and Danny peered around it before stepping fully into the room and shutting the door behind him. He smiled apologetically at Lindsay.

“Thought you punked out on us.”

“I almost did. Even on the way here, I kinda hoped I'd missed you guys. Just so it wouldn't be my fault.”

“I'm glad you didn't.”

“So am I, now that I see you. You look amazing.” He wasn't exaggerating. She wore a sleeveless black dress with white piping and knee-high leather boots, also black. The spans of thigh between boot and skirt (which ended well above her knees) were sheathed in sheer black stockings. He opened his mouth for a cliché but hopefully charming line about getting into a dress that tight, but was interrupted by a powerful hand yanking him around by the bicep.

Danny nearly pissed himself, looking up from an eyeful of uniformed-officer-of-the-NYPD torso to a scowling face half-concealed by mirrored shades, then barked a laugh when the scowl broke into a familiar grin. “You asshole!”

“Now who's the superior ninja?” Flack folded the sunglasses and tucked them in his pocket.

“I will get you for that!”

“I'm shaking. It's good to see you, man.” He clapped Danny on the shoulder and stepped away to check the zippers on a compartmented duffel. With the added distance Danny could see that it wasn't a real uniform, just a costume with respectable attention to detail. The boots looked genuine police-issue, though, as did the belt and the two pair of handcuffs hanging from it.

“I bet it is. You're going to this thing dressed as a cop?”

Flack quirked his eyebrows. “Like putting a false horn on a real unicorn.” His best attempt at an Alan Arkin impersonation. “Besides, no one can resist a man in uniform.”

“I think it suits him.” Lindsay said, switching off lamps on her way towards the door. “Very heroic, not to mention dead sexy.”

“Thank you, doll. You're pretty easy on the eyes yourself.”

“And what am I, chopped liver?” Danny squawked, giddy with the ease of their familiar banter.

She eyed him appraisingly: motorcycle boots and black jeans that hugged the curve of his ass, and he'd buzzed off that stupid fauxhawk. “Grade A sirloin. You'll have to ditch the t-shirt when we get there, though.”

Danny nodded; he'd seen the appropriate-attire memo. “I remember.”

“I'm glad you decided against contacts,” Flack said, “Specs look damn cute on you.”

“ _Frogio_ ,” Danny brushed him off with a snorted Italian epithet—but was that a blush?

“And the other thing we talked about? You still okay with that?”

“I guess so,” Danny shrugged. “I mean, I don't have a problem with it, I just think it's kind of silly.”

“We don't have to do it if you don't want to,” Lindsay assured him.

“No, let's do it.”

“Okay.” Flack pointed to the carpet at his feet. “On your knees.” Danny rolled his eyes, but did as he was told.

“Lindsay, if you'd do the honors?” She came to stand behind Danny, and Flack handed her something over his head.

“From this point on, your name is not Danny Messer. You will be our pet, and that is the only name you will answer to. You will address me as 'Sir' or 'Master' and Lindsay as 'Mistress' or 'Ma'am'. You will walk a step behind us and you will not leave our sides without permission. You will obey no one but us. You will stand until you are told to sit down and you will kneel unless you are offered a chair. You will do as you are told without hesitation and without question. If you have a problem with a command, or a question you can't ask publicly, you will say 'Master may I please have a word with you' and we will find someplace to talk privately, but you will _not_ challenge our authority in public. Do you understand?”

“Yes Sir,” Danny said, eyes fixed straight ahead.

“Good boy,” Don smiled and nodded to Lindsay.

Danny felt her cold fingertips brush his skin as she slid the collar into place, heard the tink of the buckle. He swallowed and felt the squeeze of the leather on his throat. He found he could breathe comfortably, if a bit more shallowly than usual. There was something exciting about that, and surprisingly calming.

“Too tight?” Lindsay asked. She had to admit, she had some reservations about this part. Don had suggested it to Danny as a possible way to protect them all from embarrassment, by allowing them to guide Danny's introduction to the Scene and give him a more intimate peek at the protocols which informed it. He had agreed a little too readily, to Lindsay's eyes, which lead her to suspect that he really didn't recognize what he was getting himself into. She respected the intentions behind the plan, but worried that, because he saw as only a silly game a form of play she knew to hold the potential for intense psychological trips, they were throwing Danny into the deep end before he knew he'd even entered the pool.

“No, Ma'am.”

“Everybody ready to go?” Don asked, handing Lindsay her leather jacket. “Okay, ramblers, let's get rambling. Pet, bring the duffel.”  
~~~  
As Flack had promised, Leather and Fetish Night was neither an orgy nor a toga party. The club was spacious, but packed with people, warm and for the most part dimly lit. The crowd was mostly men of all shapes and ages, many of them topless, a few in nothing but a thong, most wearing some mix of leather and denim. There were also quotas of women, cross-dressers, and gender-ambiguous persons, interacting in all possible combinations. Music, mostly industrial remixes of 80s anthems, swallowed conversation, but all around Danny faces beamed with smiles.

Once through the door, Flack and Lindsay piled their jackets on top of the bag Danny still carried. Flack gave him a couple of singles, so Danny queued for the coatcheck while the others waited nearby. He returned with the hanger tags and Lindsay handed him her purse. “Thank you, pet.”

They wended their way through the crowd, Don and Lindsay trading smiles with other patrons, pausing occasionally for a hug or a more elaborate greeting. The exchanges were all on a first name or nickname basis. Danny wasn't introduced except at the request of the other parties, and then only as 'pet'. He was acutely aware of being checked out, and just as aware that it wasn't just his body or face they were looking at. These people were looking for cues on how to act around him, wondering where he fit in the network of roles and power relationships; he saw the change in their faces when they noticed the collar, how some lost interest and others had theirs piqued.

They'd made it only halfway across the floor of the club when Flack was hailed. “Evening ossifer. What seems to be the trouble?”

“That's my line!” Don approached the speaker, a round-faced grinning man with a bald spot like a tonsure on top of his gray-stubbled head. “What, you're so lazy now you can't get out of your chair to greet me?”

“Sorry, Don. Keeping the seat warm, Sir's orders.” Don rolled his eyes and wrapped the guy in a bear hug, then stepped aside to let Lindsay have a go. This must be bill, Danny figured, Don's Master's senior slave who lived with him upstate.

“Did Sir go far or—”

“Is it my imagination, whelp, or are you getting taller?”

Don turned slowly to face the speaker, a solidly built man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a fierce look on his face who stood barely as high as Don's chest. “No, Sir.”

“No what?”

“To my knowledge, I am not getting taller, Sir.”

“Then I'm imagining things?”

“Wonderful things, no doubt, Sir.”

Their rhythmic banter concluded, the man chuckled affectionately and snapped his fingers twice. “Get over here, whelp, I'm straining my neck looking up at you.” Like a horse at the gate, Don leapt forward, sinking to his knees a step in front of the man and bowing forward to kiss each of his boots. When he sat back up his Master bent, leaning stiffly on a lacquered cane, to kiss his third eye. His face glowed with fondness and Don's reflected the same affection mixed with what looked like reverence. No question of who this was, then.

The Master saluted Lindsay as “the fair belle of Bozeman,” shaking her hand before drawing her into an avuncular embrace (the heels on her shoes gave her an inch's height advantage). He then turned a good-natured but shrewd gaze on Danny. “And who's this young pup—oh! This is him, isn't it?” bill smiled at this, beatific as Buddha.

“This is our pet for the night, and yes, he's 'the other co-worker'. pet, this is Master Glenn and slave bill.”

“Well, well. Pleased to make your acquaintance, mr. pet,” Glenn offered his hand so Danny shook it. His grip was strong, his hand warm, dry, and calloused.

He snapped his fingers again and bill vacated the seat, laying a foam gardening pad beneath his knees beside the chair. He beckoned Don to do likewise at his other side, laying a hand gently against his neck when he did so. Feeling like a fifth wheel, Danny interrupted, politely as he could, to ask Don's permission to take a look around.

“I'll go with him,” Lindsay offered and Don nodded, turning back to his Family.

Danny meandered around the club, taking in as much as he was able. He moved from lounge, to bar, to dungeon, to vendor's area and back again, finally settling in a corner with a sight line to the small stage. There was a petite blonde up there, tied face up on a leather bench, naked except for black panties with pink frills, matching stay-ups and a pink satin blindfold. Another woman, older, in a PVC dress, stood over her wielding a device with a plastic handle and glowing glass head. Danny watched as the top lowered the wand to the bottom's thigh, watched her squirm as a flash of St. Elmo's fire arced out to meet her skin.

Danny wiped a hand over the lower half of his face, staring into the middle distance as his brain compiled and integrated everything he was seeing. Two guys in their twenties walked past, debating the relative merits of candles and paraffin baths. A few yards to his left there was an old-fashioned barber's chair on another raised platform; one man sat in the chair, resting a booted foot on a wooden crate while a younger man worked it over with polish and brush. Danny frowned slightly when the bootblack pressed his mouth to the leather, massaging the polish in with his tongue, then shrugged; hardly the weirdest thing he'd seen this week. And over the drone of music and conversation Danny could still hear the occasional thwack of a cane or paddle from dungeon across the room. He'd stopped there for a long time, watching players step up to the furniture ringing the dungeon (benches, stocks, a vertical pillar, X frame and another frame supporting a mesh of heavy rope), play out their scenes, and step aside to let the next pair or trio have a go. He watched movements (the graceful awareness of the experienced tops, the twitches and gasps of the bottoms), hands (the wrist flick that sent the cat arcing through the air, the fist-clench as the tails connected) and faces (the warmth and focused attention, the serenity that shone between the winces).

“Two and a half years.”

“Ma'am?” He looked at Lindsay, standing by his elbow.

“You can speak naturally for now. That's how long I've been in the Scene.”

“But that's—“

“As long as I've been in New York, right. I knew about it before that, did some research, but didn't go looking for other players until after I left Bozeman. I knew too many people there, didn't want anybody to find out, and besides that I was too scared to admit, even to myself, that this was something I wanted. But then I figured, if I could move halfway across the country to a city I'd never even visited, if I was strong enough to do that, brave enough, then I was brave enough to explore this side of myself too. So I went looking: checked online for local events, went to a sex shop in the village to get a ticket.” She laughed. “I didn't get into BDSM in Montana because I was afraid of running into people I knew. I move two thousand miles to a city with three _thousand_ times the population, where I don't know _anybody_ , and what happens? I run into—and I mean literally, run into,” she used her hand to mime smacking face first into something solid, “a detective I first saw less than a week before, sneezing in a tiger cage.”

“Flack.”

She nodded. “Either one of us could have covered, pretended we didn't know the other or lied about what we were doing there, but neither of us did. We talked for a bit, both promised not to tell anyone else, then the next night we went to a munch together. A few weeks later I did my first scene, with him. Most of the play I've done has been with him, mostly as a sub though lately I've been working on my skills as a top. Even when I play with other people, Don's always been my safe call. He's an amazing friend, and I love him completely. But what he told you is true: we never slept together. I haven't slept with or even had a romantic interest in anyone since I moved to New York, except for you. You know that, right?”

“I believe you. I'm still jealous that you have this thing you share with him that I didn't even know about.”

“I wanted to tell you, but I'm still figuring it out. I've barely started to get comfortable with it myself, I couldn't imagine how you'd react if you knew.”

“You two. Would it kill you to trust someone? Give me some credit here.” Lindsay pursed her lips and Danny regretted speaking. He could feel her silent recrimination— _I did trust you, gave you my heart and look what you did with it_ —burn holes in him like acid, and knew he deserved it. He sighed. “Okay, so that's how you got involved with the subculture. What I still don't get is why, I mean, especially considering what you've been through.”

A wry smile. “I don't know if that's what drew me to BDSM in the first place or what kept me away from it for so long. I do know there were days I made myself sick worrying, thinking I must be crazy to want someone to hurt me, throw me around. Like I wanted Katums to kill me too. Eventually I realized that it was just the opposite: BDSM for me isn't about victimhood, it's about agency. I choose to play, when and with who, and if I pull the plug it stops. Choosing to be powerless shows me how much power I have.”

“I can appreciate that. But this,” Danny waved his hand at the demo on stage, the bootblacking station, the dungeon and the crowd. “All this fooferah, the titles and costumes—and the pain! I read the stuff Flack gave me, about the endorphins and the trance states and all that shit, but I still just do not get how someone could want to hurt like that.”

“Come on, Danny. You work out, you have tattoos, you aren't—or weren't—shy about teeth.”

“What's your point?”

“You understand that sometimes pain can be something else.”

“Well, yeah, but—that's different. This is . . . .” He paused, watching the way the demo sub's face twisted with agony when the wand passed over her nipples one last time, and how blissful she looked when the Dominant removed her blindfold and helped her, blinking, to sit up. “No, you're right. I'm still looking for what I expect to see, instead of accepting the evidence that presents. Thing is, I don't think this is ever going to make sense to me, no matter how many times people try to explain it. I need to try it for myself.”

Lindsay blinked. “Come again?”

“Hearing about play isn't cracking the case for me. I need to actually do it. Tonight, with you and Don.”

“You're sure about that?”

Slowly, Danny lowered himself to his knees. He licked his lips, stomach doing a butterfly flutter like the first time he'd asked her out, then turned his face up to hers with a cockeyed grin. “Yes Ma'am I am.”

She studied him carefully for a moment. “Come with me.”

Lindsay beelined back to the table, leaving Danny scrambling to catch up. Don was still kneeling next to his Master, apparently engrossed in conversation, when Lindsay came to a ten-hut in front of them. “pet has something he'd like to say,” she announced.

“Oh yeah?” Don asked, coming to his feet.

Danny didn't kneel this time, but bowed his head, chin to collarbone, unable to meet Don's eyes. The butterfly had turned into a bird, wings beating furiously against his ribs like that moment Lindsay almost kissed him in that Montana courtroom. “I, um . . .”

“Speak up.”

“I—Master, I want you to hurt me. Please. I want to understand why people do this, what draws them here. I want to feel what they feel.”

Don glanced at Lindsay, who gave him an 'I know!' eyebrow raise, then at his Family. “Now?” he asked.

“Here,” Master Glenn held out a magnetized keycard. “Room 817, the hotel across the street. W/we won't be needing it for a few hours yet; there's a kneeling bench already assembled, a few other toys and supplies.” Don hesitated. “Go on, whelp. you and I can catch up later. Right now you have a responsibility to your sub.”

“You're sure? About the room?”

“It's more comfortable than the dungeon, private and you can take your time. Have fun. Oh, and whelp? you make a mess, you know how to clean it up.”

Flack smiled his gratitude, kissed the knuckles of his Master's outstretched hand. He then grabbed Danny by the d-ring on his collar and hauled him forward until they were only inches apart and Danny could smell Irish Spring and feel the heat radiating from his body. “Careful what you ask for, pet,” he whispered, breath burning Danny's ear, “you just might get it.”

Danny rocked back when Flack released him, breathless, then followed his Masters through the club. They waited in line to retrieve their jackets and bag.

Lindsay started the negotiation. “Now, you said you want us to hurt you. What exactly do you mean by that? What are you expecting?”

“You tell me, I mean I don't really . . .” He shrugged, lacking both the experience and the vocabulary to answer the question.

“Let's start with what you don't want. What are your hard limits?”

“Well, I'd prefer you not stick anything up my ass, if that's alright. No offense man, I'm just not into that.”

Don rolled his eyes. “Heard and acknowledged. Anything else?” Danny shrugged again, taking the jacket Lindsay handed him and tugging it on over bare skin. “Okay, we'll start simple: little percussion play, different implements and intensities, figure out what does and doesn't work. How about bondage, you okay with being tied up?”

“I guess so. Within reason, anyway.”

“What about marks?” Lindsay asked as they crossed the street to the hotel. “Bruises, welts, nothing permanent. Any problem with that?”

“You're not posing for any calendars this week, are you?” Don cracked.

“No, as long as I don't need to go to the hospital or anything marks are okay.”

“We'll do our best to keep hospitals out of the equation.”

“Thank you, pet, that gives us a place to start.” In the lobby of the hotel Lindsay grabbed Danny's arm, pulling him down so she could whisper in his ear: “Now tell the desk clerk what we're here for.”

He blinked at her, but she raised an authoritative eyebrow so he licked his lips and walked over to the desk. “Excuse me,” he said, and the clerk looked at him politely. “Those folks over there are my Mistress and my Master, and we're here tonight so they can show me the meaning of pain.” He expected the clerk to frown in bewilderment but she just giggled and went back to her MSN conversation. Desensitized by working across the street from Shed, he imagined.

Lindsay smiled smugly as he rejoined them in the waiting elevator. “Now if anything does go wrong the police will know where to start.”

“That was very impressive, pet,” Don said, stroking his hand over the back of Danny's head. The bird in his stomach was still flying in circles, and Don's gentle touch and praising words sent shivers down his spine. The hand left when they reached the eighth floor, as Don lead the search for 817, but Lindsay's cold fingers replaced it, sliding up under his leather jacket to trace lightly along his hipbones. Don was still speaking as he opened the door and flicked on the light. “You handled it like a natural, like an artist. In fact I've been consistently impressed with your behavior tonight. Your obedience, your responsiveness . . . you're a model sub, and you make it look damn good.”

“You're not the only one who noticed,” Lindsay pulled the door closed as Don pushed Danny into the room in front of him hard enough that he stumbled.

“Put the bag over there,” Don commanded, indicating the foot of the nearer bed as he brushed past Danny on his way to close the blinds. “Oh?”

“I caught half the people there staring at our little pet here.” Danny blushed; feeling exposed, vulnerable, and increasingly excited.

“Just half? Kneel there. Lose the jacket. Belt too.” Don pointed at the spanking bench erected in the middle of the room, which Danny obediently climbed onto, arms hanging by his sides. Don tossed the jacket next to the bag, took Danny's glasses and watch and set them on top of it, then tore a sheet of cling wrap from a box in the bag, smoothing it over the surface of the bench and covering it with a towel.

“Oh, they were all staring. The rest were just more subtle.” Lindsay shrugged off her own jacket and left her boots by the door. She padded silently across the carpet to the duffel and pulled out a pair of leather cuffs. She grabbed Danny's hands and pulled him down so his chest was flush against the bench, then buckled a cuff around each wrist, locking them both on a karabiner attached to the head of the bench. She crouched down to look him in the eye, squeezed his fingers. “How's that, circulation okay?”

Danny nodded.

“Let us know immediately if you start feeling cold or numb anywhere.” She raised her voice. “Everyone in that club, staring at our pet. Wanting to take him home. Wishing they were us.”

“Can you blame them?” Don pushed Danny's face down into the bench, leaning over him. “Last order of business: safewords. Stoplight code. 'Green' means 'keep going', 'amber' means 'ease up a bit', 'red' means 'full stop, end of story'. You got that?” Danny nodded, nose buried in detergent-perfumed terry. “Good boy.”

“Can't blame them at all. Our pet's an attractive creature.”

“You can say that again. Little bit bad-boy, little bit geek-chic; between the eyewear and the ink our boy pushes all the buttons.”

“Not to mention he has a great ass.”

“Great ass, great arms, great body all around. I gotta say, I am really enjoying having him all tied down like this. Like a private art exhibit, for just us to admire.”

Danny could hear them moving, hear zippers and rustling as they fished things out of the bag, torture devices of unknown form. He could have lifted his head, looked over his shoulder, but he feared it would displease them to catch him peeking. Instead he closed his eyes and let other senses tell the story. The sound of their voices uncoiled in his brain like smoke, and the towel was rough under his skin. He felt like one of Harlow's monkeys, clinging to substitute comfort while observers prowled unseen, their hands holding the promise of love or horror. The blush had spread from his face; the heat encompassed his chest and shoulders and was still creeping outwards. Blind and helpless, Danny was forced to admit that he wasn't just anxious: he was turned on.

Don had been keeping an eye on Danny's reactions while he and Lindsay set up. He allowed him self a delighted gasp when he saw how his back flushed red and breathing slowed and deepened. “Wouldya look at that? He's totally getting off on this.” He walked over to Danny, grazing a hand lightly up his spine, then rubbing it back down hard. “You like that, don't you pet? Like us talking about you like you're not here. Talking about how sexy you are, like you're a piece of meat, no mind, no cares.” He brought his mouth close to Danny's ear again, and the bird in Danny's stomach multiplied until there were hundreds of them, millions, every pigeon in New York City trapped in his stomach and frantic to get out. Like the moment Montana agreed to go back to his place, the moment she grabbed his hand after she beat him at pool. “That's what you like, is it? You like being an animal, an object? A toy, here for our amusement? Well aren't you the lucky one, pet, because tonight, that's all you are.”

The first smack silenced the birds. It didn't really hurt, it wasn't that hard, but he'd been so drawn into the sound of Don's voice that it caught him completely by surprise. The hand was still on his ass, warm and huge, it had to be Don's, and the fingers pressed his flesh through his jeans before they pulled away to plant a second hit, equal force, on his other cheek.

Don spanked him again, and again, alternating sides at first, then shifting his pattern, mixing hard hits with soft taps and squeezes, so that Danny couldn't predict where the next slap would fall or how hard. He slowly increased the force of the spanking, falling back into rhythmic regularity, watching Danny's hands clench as he warmed up his ass. Soon he was building up a sweat, beating Danny hard enough to drive his hips into the bench with each smack. He gave him one final swat, then ran his hand over the tenderized cheeks and smooth back, beaded sparsely with perspiration. “How we doing so far, pet?”

Danny cleared his throat. “Green,” he croaked.

Don grinned at Lindsay, who matched his smile. He wasn't wimping out. Lindsay stepped up to the plate and Don gave her space. He popped his top shirt button and went into the bathroom to quietly run a glass of water.

Danny recognized the change of hands, melting into the bench as Lindsay ran her fingernails in slow spiral patterns over his back, soothing and familiar. The mesmerizing gentle scratch/stroke lulled him, lead his stunned subjectivity to a safe and peaceful place. Something soft landed on his back with a dull thud; something cold and butter-smooth tickled down his sides. Putting these facts together lead him to identify implement as a heavy suede flogger.

Lindsay raised the flogger, dragging the fat falls over the skin of Danny's back, then brought it thudding gently down again. She repeated this a few times, before she started to raise the velocity and force of the swings. She beat his shoulders and ribs, building the intensity to warm them up like Don had done for his ass, before turning her own attention there and working the flogger in a figure-eight motion.

The spanking had been a surprise, Danny's conscious mind would have observed were it collected enough to do so. The way that it hurt, even through the insulating armor of his jeans, but then again given how worked up he was getting, hearing them moving and talking about him but unable to see until he had to bite his tongue to keep from pleading 'dear God someone please _touch_ me!', not really, or not in a way that he disliked. The longer it continued, the more it pulled his blood down towards the site, to cushion and protect the assaulted tissues of his haunches (and also to bring his cock from half-mast to full attention), and the more his awareness followed. The steady rhythm of it—smack, smack, smack—was almost hypnotic, and the breeze-light stroking interlude had only deepened the trance. He was now relaxed and sensitized enough to welcome this new stimulation. True, the thumping was hard enough to knock the wind out of him, and on some strokes the falls caught him on the wraparound, landing sharply on a patch of particularly sensitive bare skin, but he didn't mind. It felt like a massage, like the beater brushes at a carwash, like being rattled around on an amusement park ride; it was _weird_ , yes, but it was _good_.

Don chuckled at how Danny's body arched up to receive the flogger, seeking out and absorbing the force. “Having fun down there, pet?” he asked.

Danny grunted. Lindsay stopped her flagellation and groped Danny's ass while she turned to look at Don, panting slightly. “I think it's safe to say he likes the thuddy. What say we give him a taste of the stingy?” Don picked up another toy from the pile on the bed.

“Oh, that one's mean.” Lindsay grinned, stepping out of the way.

“Our pet can handle it, and he knows to use his safewords if it gets to be too much. Doesn't he?” Don gave Danny's ass a solid swat, and Danny growled a 'yes, Master' into the toweled bench. “Hm. These pants might get in the way. Do you mind taking them off or would you rather we worked around them?”

Danny raised his head a little, blinking. “Um, no. I mean, I guess they can come off.” He pushed himself onto his elbows, feeling mortified when instead of unhooking his hands so that he could disrobe himself and hopefully conceal his erection, Lindsay reached under his belly to unbutton his fly. He blushed red as a hydrant when she pulled down his jeans and briefs and his cock, only slightly less enthusiastic than it had been a moment before, pressed hard against the bench, sprang free.

“Hello,” Lindsay said. “Nice to see you really are enjoying this.”

“Don't worry about it, man. There's no need to be embarrassed. This is just play, remember? Just trying things out to see what our bodies can take and what they can give us in return. If anything, Lindsay's right; this is a good sign—encouraging for us because it lets us know we're doing a good job. But if you're feeling uncomfortable we can stop or take a break.”

Danny looked up into Don's eyes and saw, rather than scorn or ridicule, pride and admiration. He settled himself back down on the bench. “Keep going,” he said.

Lindsay squeezed his hands while Don tugged his jeans, boots and socks all the way off, serving the dual purpose of reassuring him and of checking his circulation. She stepped back again as Don snapped his wrist and whipped Danny across the back with the thin, biting tails of a rubber flogger.

Danny gasped and squirmed into the bench because, okay, _that_ hurt. The distraction of undressing had shaken him out of his fuzzywarm daze, and this was sure as hell not bringing it back. It was however taking him someplace else. The rubber tendrils felt like they were slicing his flesh, carving stripes in it every time they connected, but in the wake of every strike came a wave of euphoric _rightness_. It wasn't pleasure so much as a feeling of affirmation, a sense that yes, this was what was supposed to be happening. This was what he was supposed to feel. This was what he _deserved_. The pain that seared through him was only the just and appropriate consequence for . . . what? For every time he had ever hurt anyone else. Every lie he'd told, every promise he'd broken, every trust he'd betrayed, every hope and faith and expectation he'd fallen short of or failed. This was the punishment the bad little boy Daniel Messer stopped getting once he grew up, though he needed it more than ever.

The tops traded off silently this time, Don retreating while Lindsay moved in with a Lexan cane. Danny was too swept up in the waves of pain-relief to see or even really feel the transition, but somehow he sensed the change of hands, and when Lindsay brought the cane down he whimpered into the towel.

The pain tore through his body and out his throat, tangible enough to taste. This was all the years he'd spent striving to convince himself that he was worthy of the good things he was given without trying, striving to earn something he rejected as worthless each time he earned it. This was all the love he'd ever refused because he couldn't accept that he deserved any person's care. This was pain that healed. This was holy fire and it burned and purged him of guilt and shame. This was penance. This was catharsis. This was sacrifice. This was benediction. This was what he'd been begging for all his life and never granted, from his father, his mother, from Louie, from all the victims and all the survivors and even those sad SOBs who'd found themselves on the wrong side of the booking desk for screwing up no worse than he had, from Aiden and Ruben and Rikki and from Lindsay herself. This was expiation. This was forgiveness.

Danny's moans turned to screams, harsh barking yelps, and between them he gulped air and shook on the bench as Lindsay just kept on beating him.

Don flinched in sympathy with the walloping Danny was taking. The other man's sides heaved between strikes and his hands clenching in galvanic spasms, and he'd started emitting low grunts after each hard hit. “Remember the stoplight, pet.” The grunts turned into moans, muffled in the bunching towel. “There's no shame in using a safeword. Everyone has limits. You've taken more than a lot of people can already.”

Danny didn't give any sign of even hearing him, so Don turned his attention to Lindsay. “You wanna maybe rein it in for a minute there, cowgirl?” Don said, trying to disguise his concern with jocularity. She didn't respond either; he slid along the wall to get a better look at her face—she wasn't even looking at Danny, eyes unfocused, staring through him, as if now _she_ was the one entranced by the rhythm of the beating. Only the rhythm was wrong. She kept the cane away from organs, over areas shielded by bone and muscle and fat, but it was too many hard hits, too close together, too all in a row, and angry red welts were blooming on his skin, rising criss-cross on his back. This was far beyond Not Good, Don thought, watching the way Danny blanched white around the wounds.

“Linds . . .”

The way Lindsay kept hitting him, too hard, throwing the strength of her whole body into it. The way she sobbed, tears spilling down her cheeks, the way she too cried out with each stroke, hoarse and anguished.

“Lindsay!”

The way the cane cracked the skin, new welts splitting open like seams stitched with bright blood welling up and trickling down.

“Stop! Red, Lindsay, red!”

She raised the cane to hit again and Don rushed forward, grabbing it and wrenching it away, pinning her arms to her chest and pulling her tight. “That's enough, sweetheart. No more.”

She buried her wet face in his breast, shaking like a leaf. “What he did—he deserves—“

“Maybe Danny does, but pet doesn't. You understand. A sub puts their safety in your hands, it's your responsibility to keep a grip on your emotions. Trust, honor and respect, remember? Come here.” He lead her to a chair, and had to force her back down into it when she immediately tried to stand up.

“Oh God, Don, what have I done? It's my fault, I'm the one who should have—Oh fuck, Danny!”

“It's alright, you just got carried away.” He kissed her forehead, wiped her tear-stained cheeks. “You sit tight for a minute and let me check on him.”

He knelt at Danny's head, unbuckled the cuffs on his wrists. “How're we doin' over here, pet?” Danny didn't answer, just kept panting into the towel. Don frowned; rapid breathing, especially coupled with his lingering pallor, was a Bad Sign. He squeezed his fingers: the skin was warm, not clammy, and the pulse though elevated was strong. “Messer, look at me.”

Danny raised his head a little. He blinked a couple of times before his eyes focused on Don's face, then he smiled weakly and returned the pressure on his hands. “Hey.”

Don studied his face, checking pupillary response by raising his hand to block the light and lowering it again.

“S'matter?” Danny asked, frowning.

“Just making sure you're not in shock.” Don sighed with relief as the color returned to Danny's face. “How do you feel?”

Danny smiled again, awestruck. “Clean,” he said. “Kinda floaty. Actually, it's the best I've felt in years.”

He looked over at Lindsay, hunched over in the chair with her face in her hands. Gingerly, he eased himself to the floor, dragging the towel halfway off the bench with him, and crawled, naked, across the carpet. He collapsed at her feet, kissed the arch of each. He raised his face to look up to her, solemn as Charon. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Thank you for showing me . . . what I was too lost to even know how to look for.”

Lindsay reached out to touch his face, sliding to her knees to join him the ground. “Can you ever forgive me?”

“No question. And I swear I will do my best to never let you let me be an ass and hurt you again.” He leaned his head against her shoulder, and her hands wrapped around him, tenderly, careful of his lacerations.

Don watched their reconciliation with a happy heart, tinged only faintly with envy. He began quietly to tidy up, putting the towel on the floor by the door, the clingwrap in the bathroom garbage and the used toys in a plastic bag inside the duffel. Work complete, he started to leave. The door creaked and Danny looked up. “I was just going to give you some privacy.”

Danny reached towards him, beckoning, begging. “Stay,” he said, “please.” There was gratitude in his eyes, and something else, the shadow of a request that didn't know how to be asked. Don closed the door and went to take his hand, allowed himself to be pulled down into the embrace. Danny raised the hand to his lips, kissed the scarred knuckles, then placed the hand over the collar still encircling his throat. “I think I'm startin' to get it now. But I have so much more to learn.”


End file.
